Author: Author John G Dyer

Born in Chickamauga, Georgia, John Dyer moved to Asia in 1956, when his father took an engineering assignment with a power utility. He attended grades 1-12 at an international school, touring with his family through 29 countries before settling in the Midwest. A computer scientist turned author of fiction, he is a founder of an IBM-affiliated software company, and an early innovator in electronic commerce. He brings a lifelong interest in science and engineering to everything he writes.

Call of the Muse

I’m recently enticed by a call for submissions issued by The Dark London and Transmission Roundhouse entitled “A curation of audio works from new producers”, serendipitously appearing the day I joined a podcasters support group.

It’s fate, right? I’m thinking about podcasting a novel, and some outfit throws out an opportunity to practice. May 17 deadline. Not impossible.

Now to make a decision — straight-up reading, dramatic reading, or full-on radio play?

Maybe you can help with that. Short story draft appended. Comments invited.
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Space War!

Yet another teaser from Maroli Tango. Enjoy!

The first chapter of a story is always the hardest to finish, even when last words have been written.

Anuraga Media’s first installment of Unseen was burdened by an elephant in the room, a twist if you will, motivation to rush the backstory with documentary footage, the void of space, the glitter of stars, a giant spaceship firing lasers, subtitled communications chatter.

Visceral. Trust the audience to get the idea. Jump right in.

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Bar Fight!

A favorite action scene reprised from the Maroli Tango first draft, later in the narrative as a consequence of re-structuring the book, colorized for your enjoyment.

Arlington, Virginia

The landing zone was a dumpster farm behind a strip mall, half a block from a franchise bar and grill. Citra, Mason Fowlkes’ 9-meter spaceboat, was parked inconspicuously alongside a semi-trailer with a flat tire.

The sun had been down half an hour. A dusk-to-dawn fixture above a mattress store loading dock was the only ambient light source. Somebody, somewhere, was smoking a cigarette.

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Hooked!

2024 marks our tenth year renting the same Florida house, wherein hangs our Florida boat, graciously placed in our care by the landlord for a modest sum, and which has since consumed many thousands of dollars in upkeep.

And in all this time I’ve neglected to attend a niggling detail, that of a common iron hook upon which the boat was hanging, shedding rust flakes on fiberglass, leaving stains, and giving the successor captain more work to do.

I’d say I didn’t clean up after replacing the hardware so I could take a more evidentiary photograph, but the truth is that rehanging the boat was a struggle and I was tired. In fact, the business of finding a heavy duty SS latch hook was itself a struggle, which is part of the reason why it took ten years to get the job done.

But the main reason is that we’re getting older, and maintenance has become such a dreaded chore that, this time, when I replaced the hook, I wanted it to be the last time.

Is age creeping up on you? What are you doing to deal with it. Tell us in the comments.

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Ludditeticulous!

So, Linda brings home this $5 Hewlett-Packard Deskjet 2772 printer/scanner from the women’s club rummage sale, because my $20 yard sale Canon Pixma IP3500 that I bought for the Florida house ten years ago doesn’t have a scanner.

The HP is slow, ink carts are expensive, the print head is unserviceable but yes, it does have a scanner. For $5 I can run the ink dry and throw it away. Good so far, right?

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Concise, when verbosity would suffice

While pushing through the poetry segment of Literature 302 at University, I acquired a fascination with expressing as many ideas as possible in every sentence. I wouldn’t say I’m an expert at it, but it’s been noticed by readers who occasionally mention that my prose is one of either, (a) wall-to-wall with nuance and meaning or, (b) hard to understand.

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Psyched Out!

Another teaser from Maroli Tango. Now that I know who the cast is, I'm moving ideas forward in the manuscript and writing new material. I've thrown away almost 10,000 words, but the count is only down 2,000. I don't know if that's good or bad. Yes, it's still a Science Fiction book. No, I'm still not serializing it.

Titan Pass, Nevada

The Clover hab Mason Fowlkes shared with his sister was set apart by a bricklayer’s trowel fastened to a mailbox post, and a girl’s bicycle on a kickstand, propped up by a strategically located chunk of shale rock on the ground.

 Erin Fowlkes appeared with her also-ten-year-old friend Kelly, who said her name, shook everyone’s hand, and rode her bike away as fast as she could.

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Redocktive

My solicitation for dock builders flushed out a pair of sturdy young men who work weekdays for one of the name brand marine contractors.

A discount on the market rate ensued, along with better start and end dates.

But the big payoff may be that I discovered what needed to be done. The pilings were compromised by rot and seaworm predation. The first guys who showed up to bid didn’t say a thing about it.

Six bids in, I found out how bad it was. I hired the eleventh guy, on judgement and instinct.

It’s turning out well.

Have you experienced a satisfactory conclusion to a sticky problem? Tell us about it.

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Maroli Tango — The Front Nine

Appended herein are the first nine chapters of a first-draft, first-master-edit novel-in-progress, which I anticipate publishing around July 2024.

Writing is an activity, something I do for fun. Promoting the work is a grind. It takes a lot of effort. It’s expensive, rarely productive, and I don’t have to do it, so I won’t. This little bit I’m doing here is writing. It’s fun.

If you’re an avid reader, or a writer, or someone thinking about becoming a writer, or curious about process, carry on. Nobody exposes this kind of material. It’s in rough shape, potentially embarrassing. I shouldn’t even let Beta readers see this stuff, and yet here we are.

Continue reading “Maroli Tango — The Front Nine” →
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Space Soap Opera!

I'm STILL not serializing this book.

White House Marine Guard commander Daryl Price appeared in time to witness Colonel Clarke’s wife Lorretta arriving in an aircar on the Oval Office patio.

Lorretta’s on-call CH Banks bodyguard pulled Brandon and Captain Price into a pow-wow on the topics of anticipated threat level, distribution of fighting drone assets, and whether to eat lunch now or later.

Captain Price told Brandon, “I don’t mind tagging along for the party, but I thought you were functioning as the President’s shadow.”

Brandon said, “I’ll be right there, and that was my intention, but I’ll leave it up to you. She and I are on a date.”

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